


Compliance

by Arithanas



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, management, of the enterprise sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you set your mind in a great venture, you must play by the book. It doesn’t matters how many sleepless nights you must invest on it</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compliance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wallflowering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowering/gifts).



James Wesley took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. It had been days, but at last, Confederate Global Investment stopped being just an idea to be a plan. Wesley let out a deep sigh and put his glasses on; by his side the man who will take that plan and unfurl it with the sweeping force of a hurricane and the violence of a tsunami stirred a bit on his sleep. James smiled and extended his hand to reach for the abandoned Styrofoam cup his friend and employer had been served hours ago. The coffee was cold but it was better than no coffee at all.

Wilson Fisk, soon to be known as a force to be reckoned with, was asleep on top of in over an open book. If Wesley were a man prone to impractical displays of affection, he would extend his hand to caress that bald head; but he was not, so he just smirked. Tenderness and all its accoutrements had a place and time, but certainly a work desk encumbered with law books and financial compendiums in the dead of the night was neither. Yet, as the cold coffee was consumed, Wesley couldn’t help but let his mind wonder about the subject with unwonted kindness.

Fatigue, of course, was to blame, but the amusement was received and embraced.

It all begun a odd number of  years before, five or seven, though that doesn’t really matter. What mattered most was that, one drunk hazed night, Wilson Fisk had fallen upon him like the proverbial lighting; from that day onward, James Wesley had found his life would never be the same.

Of course, there were a lot of memories to cherish in their well-oiled, self-indulgent story, but Wesley’s favorite will always be the night they shared a beer on the rickety bed of the communal house. Wesley’s wrists were still smarting ― struggling against Fisk’s grip in the throes of passion was half of the pleasure. The beautiful bruises were still raising along under his skin, and the cocktail of hormones was still bubbling in his blood; but Wilson’s voice, calmly and unhurried, started to pour forth the basis of his committed mission, and Wesley heeded every one of them. Wesley was young, and lust had a great hold of his mind, but at that moment his mind was free of reveries. There was a man, an idea, and Wesley quickly realized that this idea could destroy this man.

The harsh truth was the market was driven by people no matter what the review of the effectiveness of actions taken say, and people are unpredictable and fickle. People don’t even know what they want; they buy what they are told to buy like a flock of well-behaved sheep. Notwithstanding, what Fisk was selling was a product no one asked for, and he refused to acknowledge that fact.

Even in these times, Wilson Fisk had a sharp brain and the strength to carry out his project. He had a fatal flaw, and Wesley knew he must protect Wilson from his dream. That night Wesley chose his burden, his life purpose; he would be the assurance Fisk required to see his dream come true.

The suit would be the last step. The first step was to convince Fisk that politics held no future. Corporate was the route to take, and Wesley devoted the rest of his college years to accrue all information required to shoulder his part. Business, if one doesn’t get lulled by the schemes and logical methodology, was a lot like gambling; to sell Fisk’s dream, Wesley devoted his brain to the harsh task of rigging the game, and in his way he learned to cheat in that big game.

He needed James Wesley because Wesley would take the steps to wrap Fisk up tightly and keep him safe.

Wesley’s eyes were drawn to the board, noticing the post-it notes, each of them a layer behind which Fisk could hide and do his work undisturbed; green for the safe investments, yellow for the puppets, purple for the legal services, blue for the fund diversification,  pink for the money laundering, and white for the core. Gao, Leland and a wild-card: Russians? Puerto Rican? Gulf Cartel? Italian? Wesley was partial to the Russian, but Fisk was the one to make the choice. That wild-card was one of the biggest  risks in this entire  venture because they were the ones who would distribute the dry product people really wanted to buy, and said product would finance Fisk’s dream.

Street crime had more risks than opportunities, more weakness than strengths but more profit.  Fisk was not against it morally, but Wesley was sure if there was another alternative, he would take it in a heartbeat. Wesley would concur in a second, not because Fisk needed fawning, but because it was the safer route.

Exhaustion weighed on Wesley’s eyes; keeping Wilson Fisk safe was a daunting task.

But Fisk’s well being was the only thing worth of the effort.

Before Wesley’s mind could wander to the reasons why Fisk’s decline should be avoided to all cost, a cranky groan pulled Wesley from his musing. Fisk was sleep-tousled;  even if he had no hair to made it noticeable; Wesley had witnessed his awakening routine enough to take note of the signs. The truth was that Fisk’s stubble announced to the world how long they had been working on the plan, and that detail Wesley's grin widen.

“I still wonder how on earth you always look this sharp after three straight days of work,” Fisk commented as he extended his hand toward Wesley’s face.

Wesley was used to be handled like an object, to be felt and nudged by Fisk’s hands whenever Fisk felt Wesley was too well-groomed for  the circumstances, but Wesley liked that touch, it meant he noticed the effort. That big hand caressed Wesley’s jaw looking for any sign of a beard.

“I shave behind your back,” Wesley said, closing his eyes to feel that touch better, “sir.”

“Are we done now, Wesley?” Fisk asked as his fingers traced over Wesley’s glasses before tugging them off Wesley’s face.

“Mostly done,” Wesley replied, too aware of Fisk's hands caressing his head. That touch was really soothing. “Choosing a suitable means of distribution is all we lack...”

“Let us chose the hungriest dogs…”

“Sir?”

“The Russian.”

“It is decided. Then” Wesley felt how that hand slide to the back of his head. “I’ll contact the Russian in the morning.”

“Are we done for now, Wesley?”

“Well, except for those things beyond of our practical control,” Wesley murmured while  enjoying the hand on the back of his neck, “because we really can’t vouch for Gao’s product being imported by lawful means, or the distributors' weapons being anywhere near the vicinity of statutory compliance. We could easily get approved by ISO, if that’s your fancy.”

“Right now, my fancy is otherwise engaged…”

The hand griped Wesley’s neck with the usual violence. That harsh caress proclaimed Wilson Fisk’s mind was not really focused on business.

Fisk needed him, and that was reward enough on its own.


End file.
